


Oh, What a Night II

by unpopcultural



Series: Oh, What a Night [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Wedding, Angst, Canon Compliant, Companion Piece, F/M, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutually Unrequited, Sad John, Series Three, Texting, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpopcultural/pseuds/unpopcultural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John texts Sholto and Sherlock the night after his wedding to Mary.</p><p>Companion piece to my other fic, "Oh, What a Night," but they can be read separately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, What a Night II

**Author's Note:**

> I'm feeling kind of blah today, so what better way to cure the blues than to write angsty Johnlock? Well, maybe not, but here you go. :P

John waited until Mary was asleep to get out of bed. He snuck downstairs in the hazy darkness of the house and sat down heavily on the living room couch.

Their plane left early the next morning. That had been stupid, to schedule it that way, hadn't it? They had had the wedding, then the reception, then the obligatory (obligatory?) lovemaking, and now they had to wake up at sunrise to catch a plane. For a holiday, of course... A honeymoon. That wasn't the bad thing, necessarily. It was just that they should have scheduled it for the day after. Who had decided to schedule it this way? Had it been John? Mary? Could  _Sherlock_  have done that? He had been involved in damn near all of the planning process, so it was possible. It would be like Sherlock to irk John like this.

 _John, you bastard, you promised yourself not to think about him._ Well, it was only natural, after the events of the day. Of course the wedding couldn't have gone smoothly. Nothing involving Sherlock ever went smoothly, did it?

That best man's speech, though. That had been... something else. And then there was that text message he had received right before bed.

John fished out his mobile phone from the pocket of his robe and stared at the screen, singeing his eyes.

 _"Thank you for inviting me to the wedding, John. And thank you for saving my life. -JS_ "

John still couldn't think of an adequate reply: "Thank you?"... "I'm sorry that you were stabbed by your belt?"...

He ended up asking,  _"Are you still in hospital?"_

The response came quickly despite the hour. _"Yes. But doing better."_

_"Glad to hear it."_

The next message doused John in cold. " _You know that Sherlock Holmes loves you, right? He pretends to be your friend, and I suppose he is, but there's more to it than that. I would know."_

John gaped at the phone and felt a surge of anger burst from his chest. His fingers flew over the keys. " _How dare you say that to me on my wedding night."_

_"I only say this to ensure your happiness, John. There were three people at the wedding today who love you, and I believe that you only truly return the feeling for one of them."_

_"Yes, my wife,"_ John texted furiously, and threw the device to the carpeted floor below him.

James Sholto knew jack  _shit_  about Sherlock Holmes, John assured himself. Sherlock didn't feel _that_ way about people, not even John. Sherlock apparently understood friendship more than John had expected, but if someone's capacity for friendshipwas a surprise, then romance was out of the question. And John feeling that way about Sherlock? Well, sure, maybe at one point, but he was married now, and-- No. It was just impossible. Silly.

Obviously.

John spread out on the couch and looked up at the streetlight patterns on the ceiling.

Fucking James Sholto. John shouldn't have invited him to the wedding. He should have known that doing so would bring back... well, everything. Not just the late-night secret rendezvous and hidden smiles, but that all-seeing gaze of James that understood John to the core.

John retrieved his phone from the floor. James hadn't texted him back, and probably never would.

John typed out Sherlock's name and let his fingers move without thinking:  _"Is this how your wedding night is supposed to feel?"_

Oh, God. John quickly deleted the message and settled on something more mundane:  _"Goodnight, Sherlock."_ It was far past any normal person's bedtime, but if he knew Sherlock well, the detective would likely be awake, perhaps already back on the hunt for more intriguing cases.

 

Not too far away, Sherlock Holmes started out of a fitful sleep to the sound of his mobile's  _ding_. He was sprawled on the couch in the dark flat, a cold cigarette butt clenched between his teeth. His neck ached from the awkward sleeping position. Sherlock spat out the cigarette and stalked to the kitchen to wash out his mouth, stepping on loose pieces of paper on the way. He returned to the living room and reluctantly checked his phone.

Sherlock's lips curved into a semblance of a smile. His head hurt.

 

John had just begun to drift off on his own couch when his phone lit up.

_"Goodnight, John."_

No initials, no snarky comments, just a bland sort of formality.

Well.

John frowned and held the mobile phone against his chest.


End file.
